


white noise

by raisesomehale



Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Curses, Future Fic, Homophobic Language, M/M, Mentions of Blood, Mute Stiles, Panic Attacks, Slurs, Witches, mentions of animal death, post 3b
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-14
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 10:52:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1043962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raisesomehale/pseuds/raisesomehale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years of covering up odd happenings, occurrences that shouldn't be possible, and discounting claims that place Stiles at multiple crime scenes – whether it was him or a shell of his skin – means they have to play it safe.</p><p>And so. He bites his tongue when Dr. Giles tells him that there's a likeliness of permanent damage, nods his head when he and his dad are advised to start organizing adjustment plans, and tries not to glare at the doctor's smile when he says, “In the meantime, my colleagues and I will need some more time to evaluate your... condition.”</p><p>Condition. Like this is something temporary, like this is something they can <em>fix.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello! 
> 
> For those who don't follow my tumblr (or just haven't seen the post) I am rewriting the chapters of this fic and will update them accordingly when I finish. After that's done, I'll tackle the challenge of finishing this bad boy up once and for all. 
> 
> It's been years since I originally began this story, and I've had a lot of time to think about what I want to do with it and where I want to take it. That being said, I suggest that anyone who read the original chapters should reread the new ones. The content will be changed, not drastically, but enough. 
> 
> Thanks again, and I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> Rewritten chapters that have been posted:  
>  **Chapter 1**  
>  Chapter 2  
> Chapter 3  
> Chapter 4  
> 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! The first rewritten chapter. Man this has been a crazy journey getting to the point that I could do this, and I'm SO goddamn pumped.
> 
> If you're coming back to reread after all this time, you're awesome. If you're new to my chaos, you're awesome too, and I hope you and I can ride this through together.
> 
> Thank you to my wonderful betas, couldn't have put this together without you guys!
> 
> For more information on how I plan to rewrite and continue this story, you can chat me up on [tumblr](http://warengrey.tumblr.com/ask) or read about it [here.](http://warengrey.tumblr.com/post/148176564658/rewriting-white-noise-my-sterek-fic)

_beep… beep… beep..._

Stiles’ eyelids twitch against brightness as his lungs tick into a slow inhale. 

 _A light…_ The thought is taffy on a pulling machine, drooping and slow-formed. The itch of it makes his whole face scrunch. He tries to reach up to block it out but something pulls at him in a strange way, making him pause. A slow, dense pressure comes into focus. As a test, he flexes the muscles in his body.

Ah. His limbs aren’t just heavy, they’re asleep; his fingers and toes tingling like they haven’t moved in a while. The rest of him pinches in odd places.  _Needles_ , he realizes, _suctions_.  

His stomach swoops low and fast. He knows where he is.

_beep beep beep beep..._

He forces his eyes open to a white-paneled ceiling. There's nothing about it to discern it from any of the dozen other hospital ceilings he’s been under before: filled with fluorescent lights; sectioned into dozens of symmetrical rectangles. When he was eleven, his English teacher asked his class to write down nouns, each with what emotion they associated them with. Re: Hospital ceilings... Dread.

To his right, Stiles’ heartbeat is hurtling across a monitor. Seeing his distress in the form of blips and upticks is so routine that it’s almost enough to sober him.  _Calm down_ , he tells himself, tells the monitor. The monitor doesn’t care. This is its job.

The sudden change in his heart rate will alert one of his nurses, they'll barge in while he’s teetering on the edge of a freak-out.

He forces his eyes shut and breathes in slow, measured breaths.

This, he can control. He can’t lose it before he finds out what happened, why he’s been put in the hospital--again. For now, he can suppress it; that’s always been the easy part. This isn’t the first time he’s lost time, he just needs to pinpoint what he remembers last.

He sifts through the medicated fog in his brain for answers. Having just woken up doesn’t help. His memories feel like dream imitations: fading the harder he concentrates. 

Then - a spark of something flies out from the darkness. He leaps for it, holding onto it as it grows into clarity.

_There’s a green canopy overhead. Blue skies. Unusual for Beacon Hills in the winter. He sees the back of Scott’s head, then Lydia’s. He’s walking behind them, the opening in the tree line bobbing as he steps over the wild, unkempt underbrush._

Where’s Derek?

 _He’s not here_ , his sluggish mind supplies,  _Derek left town two years ago_. But… that’s not right, either. He came back. _Why did he come back?_

He remembers... the police department had been having trouble tracking down a witch - no, a serial killer. Not a witch. Not to their knowledge, at least. Three dead bodies. As far as Beacon Hills is concerned, it hadn't been so much out of the ordinary as it was completely  _of_ the ordinary. That’s why Sheriff Stilinski had called Scott - and in addition, all of them - in on the sidelines for help. He did this often when he suspected the culprit to be supernatural.

It hadn't been a particularly difficult mystery to solve. In fact, it had felt… too easy. They’d finally managed to corner the witch when it became obvious she hadn’t been hiding. They had to have known it was a trap.

Why had they gone?

Another flickering image. He catches it barely, by the skin of his fingertips.

_The witch in the clearing - a lake visible through the silhouetted trees behind her. And through them, on the dock: Derek, tied in chains that ended in weights. A breeze blowing past Stiles, charged and tangible. A smile on the witch’s lips. The breeze pushing through the gap in the trees and knocking Derek into the lake._

“Stiles?”

Stiles startles at the voice, the memory trickling away as he turns to find his dad shifting out of an armchair. Relief lurches through him. He sits up and -

Pain. It pierces through him, crackling off into every nerve.

His thoughts are a dowsed fuse: extinguished and smoking as his brain convulses. His palms fly up to press desperately against his temples when an irrational instinct convinces him that if he doesn't  _hold_ his head together, it'll shatter under the weight of the pain.

Eyeless sockets flash into his mind, then ones that sear crimson brands into his eyelids and finally no eyes at all. Just a voice, his own, whispered from behind bandages stuffed down his…  _there's a hand at his throat_ , ruthless and cold and laced with impossible magic that  _reaches inside and wrenches -_

_He’s so cold. No, he’s wet; he’s soaked. He’s lying by Derek on the shore of the lake, unable to move with the witch standing over him. His name is shouted. The ring of it echoes in his eardrums, tattooing itself against where his palms press against his ears –_

Everything goes still.

Like being drawn up through a baster, his pain peels away from where it had laminated itself to his skin. In its absence, all he can manage is shallow, shaky huffs. He loses count of how much time passes as he only breathes.

Eventually, he regains whatever semblance of sturdiness he might have had beforehand and can open his eyes. Scott is standing over him with a grip like a vice on his arm. Stiles glances down and watches Scott's black, taunt veins pulsate.

“Shiiit,” Scott drawls. “That was nasty... You okay?” Sometimes Scott talks and his voice isn’t so much a tone as it is an emotion. Like now, it's all worry.

Stiles exhales shakily.

His dad is reentering the room to his left. His attentive eyes are a stark contrast to his dark bags and disheveled facial hair. (Re: His dad’s worried face… Guilt.)

“Stiles,” his dad says, voice carried on a relieved exhale.

The pain from earlier is nonexistent now with Scott's help, but Stiles still feels shaky; even just the prospect of the pain’s return tricks his nerves to stand on edge. His dad reaches for him and hugs him fiercely and it makes apprehension bleed into Stiles' bloodstream. How long had he been out? He leans back to ask exactly that, and -

Nothing.

He tries again, but nothing comes out. Not a wisp of noise, not a  _single_  vibration tickling the back of his throat as he formed the words. And he  _had_  formed them, had moved his mouth, and twisted his tongue, but it was as if a blockage had flared up in the back of his throat, keeping the actual noises from leaving.

His dad’s eyes shoot to Scott, “Did Deaton say anything about this?” Stiles turns to Scott too, but any hope of an explanation dissipates when Scott's expression falters, and he turns away to grab his phone.

It hits Stiles. Realization, in light of something as glaringly obvious as this, is like a rotted tooth being dug into: sharp, intolerable. Whatever had landed Stiles in this hospital bed, once again, whatever is keeping him from talking, hadn't been the outcome of a normal, non-supernatural occurrence.  

One of the fluorescent lights overhead bursts, raining sparks down into the room.

\- ○ -

Deaton examines Stiles after he's been transferred to another room that isn't covered in glass. The examination involves both the normal, run of the mill procedures Stiles is used to experiencing when he gets his yearly check-ups, and then some he’s entirely foreign to. He's given a drink that smells like ozone and feels like both air and liquid going down. He’s given a yellow rock to hold, and when he opens his hand on instruction it has turned black. At one point, Deaton makes a small cut on Stiles’ hand and rubs the blood between his middle finger and thumb.

The rest of the pack have scattered themselves around the room as they await Deaton’s verdict. Derek is the most distracting addition to the room, leaning with his arms crossed in the farthest corner.

Then Deaton finishes, and meets Stiles' eyes with an expression that precedes terrible news. He says, "It looks like a curse has been laid upon you," and the last thing Stiles feels is surprise. "I’ve seen this particular curse only once before,” Deaton continues. “Possibly, it was the same witch in both cases. Its purpose seems to be to target its victims... senses, in a way. Once it finds the most valuable sense in regards to the host, it sucks it dry.”

It seems to come as no shock to anyone in the room that the sense in question is Stiles' voice.

“What about what happened before?” His dad asks after a miserable silence. “After he woke up. Is that a side effect of this... curse?”

Deaton shakes his head no. “From what I can tell, the pain he'd experienced was a result of the black-magic residue left from when the curse was cast. Think of a curse as, say, a drag from a cigarette. The damage is done the second you breathe it in, but you can’t keep the smoke inside you. It has to blow back out. When Stiles became unconscious the ‘smoke’ got trapped inside him. For two days. Imagine the buildup. But it shouldn't be a recurrence now that he's awake and his body can work on expelling what doesn't belong.”

That is, everything but the damage that’s been done.

Once the room is cleared, Scott pulls a chair over to the bed and rests his forearms just on the edge. He meets Stiles' gaze, sets his jaw in that stubbornly determined way of his, and promises Stiles that they'll fix this. The declaration takes Stiles back to the loud banging and humming of MRIs, of brain scans and the same damn hospital smell that he can't get out of his nose now.

Scott's voice is an echo of a dream:  _We'll do something, I'll do something._

Stiles tries to convince himself that this time will be different.

\- ○ -

Emissary diagnostics aside, Stiles is still forced to endure his doctors.  

“ _Just a few days_ ,” Melissa had told him, “ _Then I can release you_.”

Years of covering up odd happenings, occurrences that shouldn't be possible, and discounting claims that place Stiles at multiple crime scenes – whether it was him or a shell of his skin – means they have to play it safe.

And so. He bites his tongue when Dr. Giles tells him that there's a likeliness of permanent damage, nods his head when he and his dad are advised to start organizing adjustment plans, and tries not to glare at the doctor's smile when he says, “In the meantime, my colleagues and I will need some more time to evaluate your... _condition_.”

Condition. Like this is something temporary, like this is something they can _fix._

It sparks a tightness in Stiles’ chest when he watches the doctors deliver daily updates to his dad, as if there is anything to update on other than the fact his son hasn't progressed at all since first arriving.

Stiles doesn't want empty promises from doctors who have no way and no knowledge of how to fix him.

He watches his dad get his hopes up, and knows he'll be let down.

\- ○ -

One morning, Lydia lugs in the pack's bestiary along with bags upon bags full of books on supernatural lore and mythology. Some of them she nicked from Deaton's office, while others were provided to her by Chris Argent. The one Stiles is handed looks like it’s a heavy-exhale away from crumbling in his hands.

The pages are brittle and burnt, the cover charred black. He drags the pad of his finger down the indecipherable cover. It comes away covered by the ashen remains of whatever fire this book had been in. He lifts an eyebrow at his black fingertip.

“It discusses proper casting technique and diction,” Lydia tells him. “One of the only books about magic that we have access to.”

Her tone of voice implies what she isn't saying:  _Get to work. Be useful._ Stiles imagines she wouldn't have held back from saying that if the situation was different.

She moves around him to sit in an arm chair. He’s sitting in its matching pair, having had enough of the bed to last a lifetime. That morning the hospital staff had finally taken out all the IVs and monitors that he'd been hooked up to. Turns out it was pointless, when his only grievance was a case of no-voice.

Lydia folds her feet over the edge of the bed and opens a book in her lap. He can't see the cover well enough to identify it, but he can tell from the messy script that it's written in a foreign language.

From the get go, Deaton had informed the entire pack that the chances of breaking the curse were slim to none, the only possibility lying in the one that had cast it in the first place. Since the witch in question only seemed to appear every other decade, they’d most likely be waiting a long time for a chance to haggle her into reversing it.

All the same, it hasn't kept Scott from tasking the pack with tracking her down. With the werewolves out searching with their noses, Lydia had come in suggesting they try a different strategy.

He'd been surprised when she showed up in his room, and even now watches her with uncertainty. She seems more than content to just sit with him, though; the two of them alone.

He feels a twinge of heartache when he tries to remember the last time they really hung out, and comes up short. It would be nice, this time spent together. Almost like they're doing something as mundane as studying. But it's been years since the last time they could do that, and there's no doubt that they're only spending time alone together now because Lydia feels obligated. 

Focusing back on the book in his lap, he opens the cover to the barely legible first page.

The initials, _T.H._ are fading in the top left corner.

\- ○ -

“The doctors highly recommend her,” his dad is saying from where he's standing in front of the arm chair. “It’ll give you something to focus on until they release you.”

Stiles hugs his arms closer around his chest, hunkering down in the seat under his dad's gaze. He knows what he's not saying: That the doctors had advised him to hire an ASL teacher to come speak with Stiles, that Stiles should be eased into the lifestyle he's expected to live now that they're not making any progress. He also knows that his dad feels responsible for this whole thing; he’d been the one to call the pack onto the case.

Stiles’ eyes drift towards the door. Through the thin pane of glass, he sees a woman with dark features and an array of piercings lining the left shell of her ear. She'd been hired by the hospital to advise people like Stiles, and even as she waits to be let into Stiles' room she's signing with ease and finesse.

_'...great opportunity! I'll call my friend C-A-S-S-A-N-D-R-A and recommend you, she's always looking for new...'_

Stiles looks away from the rapid movement of her hands back to his dad's patient expression. He sees that he’s trying. Watches him constantly rub at his forehead like he's trying to wear a groove into it. What worst, Stiles knows he’s responsible for the wedge that’s made its way between them these last few years. He didn't even think to tell his dad that he'd taken a multitude of lessons at a neighboring town's community center. Didn't feel guilty that he'd kept it a secret, because, was anything not a secret nowadays?

At the beginning, it had mostly been a way to get out of his house, out of the part of town that was so familiar it felt like every turn and every street was a bitter reminder of what had been lost. 

So, he took some lessons. Learned how to cross stitch, made a few cakes and deep dishes, and spent an entire summer learning ASL. He doesn't know if it's appropriate to laugh at the irony of the situation, that he'd unknowingly supplied himself with the proper tools for living his life this way.

He doesn't want to live his life this way.

Right before the teacher walks through the door, Stiles stands up and steps into the small bathroom before shutting himself in.

His dad must take that for the decision it was, because he doesn't ask her to come back.

\- ○ -

One night, when the lights in the residential rooms are just beginning to dim and dinner carts are swiveling down the halls, the pack comes to visit Stiles. He's alone, his dad picking up hours again at the station.

Scott starts off with, “We've lost her scent.” Then silence. Or rather, a pause. It becomes awkward when everyone in the room seems to simultaneously realize that they're waiting for a reply that Stiles can't vocalize.

Lydia thankfully speaks up, “You and I have pretty much exhausted all of the books that we have access to. We could ask Deaton to look through his archive again, but I'm not very optimistic that he’ll find anything new.”

“Some of his books aren't really meant to be... read?” Is what Kira contributes to the conversation. “Well, okay, _technically_  they can be read, but they're dark, and it's more of the essence each of them conceal that make them significant artifacts which should, and I quote, 'Be preserved and never studied.'”

Scott's face screws up in a grimace. “Our point is -”

“We want to know if you want us to continue the search,” Derek says.

Derek has come with the pack a few times when they’ve visited, but this is the first time he's spoken to Stiles since the lake.

Stiles hasn't had any more trouble with his memory. He remembers Derek coming back to town a few weeks before the witch. He remembers having to hear about it through voicemail, because Scott had called while Stiles was in an exam. In the same voicemail, Scott asked Stiles to come back for a visit.

He got the full run-down when he arrived. Apparently, Derek had come back looking for something, but none of them ever got around to asking what. It didn’t seem clear where the boundaries were, anymore. Two years of thinking a person had disappeared for good will do that, Stiles supposes. It wasn't clear where they all stood until Derek had been kidnapped by a century old hag, and they left to rescue him. Stiles hadn't even been back in Beacon Hills for a week. 

He never should have come back.

Derek’s looking at him, now. It’s a look that tells Stiles something Scott never would:  _we’re not going to find the witch,_ and, _we don't have the answer_. 

Scott shoots Derek a scowl, but Derek’s not looking at Scott. He's waiting for Stiles’ answer.

“Of course, we're going to continue searching,” Scott says pointedly, before turning back to Stiles. “Like I told you man, we'll fix this, okay? All we need to do is...” He trails off, and for a moment Stiles doesn't realize it's because he's started to shake his head.

His chin bows. He flicks his eyes in Derek's direction before swallowing and shaking his head again, this time making the motion more final.

 _No_.

When it comes down to it, he doesn't want them to keep searching when it's clear it's hopeless. He knows how this goes. This is what Stiles’ life has been for the past three years. If he wanted to end the cycle, he should’ve stayed away from this godforsaken town.

Stiles’ eyes shift around the room. Everyone looks surprised, except for Derek.

"What should we do now?” Isaac asks.

Stiles knows the answer to that one as well:  _Live with it_.

\- ○ -

Stiles softly clears his throat before the door shuts. These last few days he’s performed a few experiments in private. He can scoff, but can’t hum. He can groan, but can’t laugh. He can sigh, but can’t scream. He can keep trying, but he’s pretty sure there’s no way to pinpoint the logic for an illogical curse.

The door stops with only a slit of space left. It opens back up to reveal Derek.

Stiles stands from the armchair and pads over to the small dresser across from his bed. Picking up the charred book that Lydia had brought, he meets Derek at the door, presenting the book for him to take. Derek does slowly.

It hadn't been hard to figure out that the initials T.H. belonged to Talia Hale. What was difficult was trying to make sense of why Derek would lend him something Stiles couldn't help but feel had taken a lot to salvage. Maybe they were still friends, after all this time. Still, that didn’t explain why Derek would feed into a search he clearly thinks was pointless.

Stiles crosses his arms over his chest and holds his gaze - this being an accusation of his own.

Derek raises an eyebrow. “Lydia asked if I had anything useful for your research.”

It isn’t the answer Stiles wants. But then, it’s easy to answer the wrong question when you’re not asked one in the first place.

They stand there for a moment longer as frustration blossoms in Stiles' chest. Eventually, he accepts that if he wants a more in-depth answer, he’ll have to come up with a better communication tactic than body language.

Derek waits another second, an empty display of courtesy, before nodding and turning. “Goodnight, Stiles.”

He closes the door behind him.

\- ○ -

The pack come to visit a lot more in the days that follow, now that they don't have an immediate crisis on their hands that they need to scramble to fix. Sometimes they come in a group, and sometimes they come one by one. He prefers it when they come all together. Scott is a lot less likely to give him despairing looks if they do.

They come, they go, and each day feels like a different form of torture.

He and his dad watch Star Wars, even though his dad can't stand sci-fi. When the girls come by for visits, they talk  _at_ him the entire time, and Stiles feels guilty that he'd rather have the silence. Scott and Isaac smuggle in some greasy burgers, but the taste seems tainted by the fact that he has to eat alone, considering they'd already had theirs at the restaurant.

He hates every minute of it.

He hates that the only time he feels normal is when Derek comes to visit, that he's the only one who will just  _sit_ in one of the shoddy armchairs and watch whatever mind melting shit Stiles has tuned the TV to.

He hates that the two of them can - apparently - coincide in easy silence for hours. And he hates, most of all, that it feels like Derek knows more than he’s letting on.

\- ○ -

Stiles gets released from the hospital one week after waking up. Everyone comes by the house to check on him except for Derek, who’d - for god knows what reason - offered to drive Stiles’ car over from where it had been circumstantially abandoned at the preserve.

By the time the familiar blue gleam of the jeep flashes outside the living room window, Stiles has reached the end of his patience. He’s out the door and facing Derek on the driveway before he even has a chance to shut the driver's door.

Stiles takes out his phone. He still has Derek’s number, buried in his contacts list. After a few seconds, Derek’s phone chimes.

**< <do you know more than you’re saying?**

Derek’s eyebrows raise, his gaze shortly following. “About?”

**< <the curse.**

“And what would I know?”

**< <that's what im asking.**

“What makes you think I know anything?”

Stiles narrows his eyes. The front door swings shut from a stray breeze and Derek glances over at it, coolly apathetic.

**< <ur back in town. after 2 years of dead silence. you just happen to have a salvaged book about magic that u lend to me. u went along with the search all while knowing from the beginning we wouldnt find an answer. why. how.**

When Derek finishes the text, he tucks his hands and phone into the pockets of his jacket. His gaze is on the setting sun. Stiles has to physically restrain himself from reaching up and turning his gaze back to him.

Derek begins slowly: “I’ve become… more familiar with magic these last two years. I came back looking for the witch. I knew the one other person the witch had cursed.” Derek’s gaze flicks back to Stiles. Stiles can hear his own breath, see it. It’s a wonder it can float in the air when everything inside of him is cement. “And I knew how their search ended, too.”

Stiles looks quickly between Derek’s eyes, feeling at once convinced and defeated. Defeated, because some part of him had believed Derek knew more than he was letting on, and he did. Just not the type of something Stiles had hoped for. Hoped. How could a part of him be resigned to reality, while the other was still holding out for a solution?

Perforce, Stiles feels the second part of him clicking into sync with the first. It's at once a weighted and weightless sensation to become wholly hopeless.

Derek holds out Stiles’ key-ring. Stiles’ fingers are numb from the cold, there’s a sharp bite when they meet the chilled metal. Derek steps back. 

“You needed to believe,” he shrugs, “I know what that’s like.” It takes a second for Stiles to follow the subject jump, before he realizes that Derek’s defending Stiles' second accusation. “I didn’t have a chance to thank you for jumping into the lake. Letting you read a book was a start, at least.”

Stiles thinks back to when he dove into that swimming pool sophomore year. To think it had been for the same reason he jumped into the lake… His life has a nasty habit of repeating itself. With one exception: Derek hadn’t thanked Stiles after he saved him at the swimming pool.

 _He’s changed_ , Stiles thinks. It feels like such an inevitable thing to happen, and yet there it was, Stiles’ surprise in the face of it.

Derek turns toward the street. “I’ll see ya.”

Stiles watches him walk away, thinking how he never thanked Derek for saving his life in the past, either.

\- ○ -

There is only one light on in the building. It's on the top floor in the upper right corner. Derek's loft. Without the moon to set the building apart from the night sky, the square of light is just another one of the stars watching the world tuck itself in for the night.

Heat is trying its hardest to pump through the shitty vents of Stiles’ jeep; the outcome of its struggle an ungodly whirring noise. On any other day, Stiles would just ignore it. On any other day, Stiles would crank on the radio to drown it out.

Tonight, Stiles flicks it off completely. His jeep is a glorified metal box, no insulation to keep in the heat it produces; it takes thirty seconds for Stiles to start to feel the cold biting at his ears, his thighs. His fingers are shaking, but it’s not from a lack of heat. He tries to find some reassurance that Derek won’t be able to see them. Not when Stiles can’t even force himself out of the car.

He takes out his phone.

**< <when u left town, were u looking for something then, too?**

Stiles looks up at the square of light. A minute passes.

**> >Yes.**

**< <what was it?**

**> >Someplace quieter.**

**< <did you find it?**

Derek takes a second to reply this time. Stiles’ leg begins to bounce.

**> >Why?**

Stiles exhales slowly. He feels the cold in every part of him. Before he got in his car he’d almost found solace in it; the cold is so precise; noiseless, but always nipping at you so it won’t be forgotten.

Stiles looks back down at his phone. His fingers hover over the letters. Slowly:

**< <this town is too loud.**

A shadow walks into the center of the square of light, unmoving. Stiles watches it but can’t make out any distinguishing characteristics. His phone chimes.

**> >Yes. I found a place.**

Stiles’ smile feels frantic.

**< <take me there.**

\- ○ -

His dad pulls him into a tight hug.

“You'll call?” Stiles pulls away enough to land him with an unimpressed look, making his dad chuckle and rub the back of his neck.

“Yeah, yeah, alright. Just as long as you know I expect you to," his eyes slip to Derek, who’s currently loading up the back of his car.

Stiles' thoughts flash back to the night before, when they'd gotten together with the rest of the pack to say goodbye. There was a good few minutes wherein Derek and his dad mysteriously disappeared. It's not hard to imagine that Derek had received what's probably to be the most convincing threat to his life, should he not keep Stiles safe.

“I guess all that's left to say is: be careful.”

Stiles swallows the lump that's forming in his throat, nodding once before he's pulling his dad in for one last hug. When they pull away, Derek steps up to them.

“We're all set.” He stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets, voice gruff from the early morning.

The horizon is a still line of cool colors, a gray atmosphere waiting to be colored. The world feels like it hasn't woken up yet. Figures the best time to escape is when no one is awake to see.

Stiles takes the passenger seat and Derek takes the driver. They pull out onto the open road, Stiles' dad standing at the end of the driveway until he’s only a speck behind them.

\- ○ -

The drive is relatively silent, and oddly comfortable. When they take back roads to avoid major highways, Stiles rolls his window down to feel the country air on his face and keeps it down long after his cheeks grow numb.

They stop at a burger joint when dinner rolls around, waiting to eat them until they’re pulled off to the side of a deserted dirt road.

The wind is restless here. It swishes the trees behind them, slithers along the beaten road, blows through Stiles' middle. He shivers, the gravel beneath his feet crunching when he shifts.

“Cold?” Derek asks. He turns back to the car like a suggestion for them to leave, but Stiles shakes his head. In front of them, beyond a brown wooden fence, the tall yellow grass is dancing. The sky above them is a winter night’s palette. He feels tethered, if only until the moment passes.

So, they stay. Leaning against the Camaro, hands tucked away in their pockets, chins tilted towards the sky, they stay. This time, the chill at Stiles' nose and ears is a bite he hardly feels.

\- ○ -

Hours later, they reach St. George.

Stiles is watching the city flick by when Derek unexpectedly pulls up into a motel parking lot. Stiles turns his gaze forward and feels his stomach drop. Trying to cover the dread, he turns and lifts a single, quizzical eyebrow at Derek.

Derek takes the keys out of the ignition and unbuckles his seat belt. “Would you rather sleep on the stiff leather in the back seat?” Stiles doesn’t answer. There’s a barely-there smirk resting on the tip of Derek’s lips before he steps out.

Stiles turns back to the motel. It's only one story tall, but he finds himself shrinking back from its neon decorated exterior. The last motel he'd been in acts as a bitter reminder in the back of his mind. Motel California, like so many other things, is a memory he wishes he could forget.

He can't for the life of him remember what clothes he'd been wearing that day, what breakfast he'd had, not even the date they'd gone there. What he  _can_ remember, with sick vividness, is the tears that had stung his eyes; the stench of the gasoline pumping his heart to beat frantically; the knife's edge of panic twisting that much deeper as Scott stood shaking and disheartened in the light of the flare.

He has a sadistic fantasy, now, of how different things might have ended that day if he hadn't had his voice. If he wasn't able to coax Scott out from under the wolfbane’s bewitchment.

A shiver racks Stiles' frame. A small cloud of white barrels out of his mouth, revealing how long he’s been sitting here. He shifts slowly to look out the back window where the trunk is open.

Derek is out of sight behind it, most likely smelling Stiles’ internal freak-out, but still giving him the illusion of privacy. Stiles can't tell if he should be appreciative or not.

Derek shuts the trunk after Stiles steps out of the car. 

“We can leave,” he says, and it’s only the complete lack of pity in his eyes that keeps Stiles’ anger in check.

As an answer, Stiles grabs his duffel bag and heads towards the lobby.

They check in and reach their room quickly. It’s facing the parking lot, shabby curtains covering a single window. There are two beds, a nightstand in between them, and a box TV with a VHS player balanced on top. A god-awful painting of a shiatzu and a poodle posed on a velvet backdrop is hanging over the beds.

He hears Derek close the door behind them and his unease starts to trickle in an upward stream. 

“Stiles?” The uncertainty in Derek’s voice makes Stiles feel nauseous.

He wishes he could talk.

He hasn't allowed himself something as unsatisfying as wishing, but he does. He wishes. Wishes past memories didn’t have the hold on him that they do, wishes he could brush this feeling off; brush off whatever Derek can most likely smell with a few jumbled words and run-on sentences, but he can't.

He can't.

So instead he nods his head, probably too fast, and gestures, probably too frantically, before jumping towards the bathroom door.

It's only when the spray hits his back that he's able to labor in slow, calming breaths. Four seconds in, seven seconds out, three sets of five, and his heart rate finally thumps back into time.

The shower is cold.

He’s on autopilot as he washes up. His brain too exhausted to fill the silence with mindless white noise as he normally would.

Eventually he finishes and shuts off the water. When he pulls back the curtain with a slightly shaky hand, he remembers with a jolt that he hadn't brought anything to change into except his dirty clothes. His eyes land on the pathetic pile they make on the floor. He could put them back on, but the thought of putting the stench and sweat of the drive back on his body makes him cringe.

What type of motel doesn’t stock the bathroom with towels?

And so, he stands, naked, dripping wet, on the bathroom tile as he racks his brain for a solution. After five minutes, he accepts that the only answer is an uncomfortable one. Serves him right for freaking out. After he's slipped back into his clothes he opens the door.

The room is in darkness, Derek asleep in his bed. The light from the bathroom illuminates a white towel and set of clothes placed in front of the door.

Heat shoots up Stiles’ face. He quickly grabs the pile and quietly closes the door before turning to glare at himself in the mirror. A vivid image comes to mind as he thinks about how he must have sat in the shower – an inelegant, frantic mess – while Derek not only had to dig through his bag, but had to go fetch him a towel.

He scowls at both pairs of his clothes, before starting the process of undressing again.

He waits an extra five minutes before exiling himself from the solidity of the bathroom, leaving the light on only long enough to locate his bed, the one closest to the bathroom door, before flipping the switch and heading towards it.

\- ○ -

The morning brings with it the smell of shitty motel-made breakfast; just the way Stiles prefers it.

He lifts his head from where it was shoved under his pillow. He imagines he makes quite the picture-- disheveled bedhead, shirt lost somewhere on the floor, eyes fading in and out of clarity as he blinks to focus them in the bright light of early morning.

As if on cue, he hears a soft chuckle from somewhere behind him.

“Morning."

His blood runs cold, heartbeat spiking into overdrive at the sound of the voice. Slowly, he turns to look over his shoulder in the direction that it had come from –

And finds Derek sitting at the small table next to the window, the open curtains bathing him in light as he sips from his coffee. Stiles tentatively glances around the room. No one else is in here but them.

“Stiles?”  Stiles swivels his gaze back on Derek, who's setting both his coffee and newspaper down, a concerned expression on his face. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Stiles answers quickly, clearing his throat and shaking his head as he sits up in the bed. “Just thought I heard... something.”

Derek’s eyebrows pinch. He rises from his chair and comes to sit on the edge of the bed, lifting the back of his hand to Stiles’ forehead. “You're burning up,” he tells him.

Stiles scoffs. Figures. He brings his hands up to rub at his eyes, palms pressing in just hard enough that small halos of color explode behind his eyelids. “Probably caught some bug on the drive up here,” he mumbles.

“That's another matter, isn't it? This trip?”

Stiles freezes.

“You should know better than to think you can run away, Stiles.”

Slowly, Stiles takes his hands away from his face to peer up at Derek, whose voice has been replaced by another. He only now recognizes it as the one he'd heard from behind ratty bandages.

“After all,” the voice says as it uses Derek's body to lean closer, the breath ghosting over Stiles' ear striking a chill down his spine, “What is easy to get into, but hard to get out of?”

 

Reality meets Stiles like he's shot up from the bottom of a lake into foot-thick ice. His throat is straining to form screams that won't come, his heart hiccupped into a steep and painfully fast rhythm. There's the hum of a voice and then a hand at his arm. He twists the hand with a sharp flick, jumping from the bed when it relents. 

He bolts for the door and rips it open, the floor moves on its own; he catches glimpses of motel numbers. A never-ending hallway.

A thick, incessant strain is twisting his chest into knots. He can’t figure out if he’s breathing. There’s only this wrongness, his inadequacy. A part of him – too distant now and growing even fainter – wants to beat this feeling into submission. He reminds himself:  _This is why you left Beacon Hills –_ but the feeling is too big to tamp down.

So, he runs.

And runs.

And runs.

\- ○ -

He's outside and against a wall when Derek finds him. With his head down and his knees up, the gulps of air he'd been sucking down slow to hitched breathes. He’s able to filter in Derek’s words. There's a firm hand gripping the back of his neck.

“...you're alright, Stiles, you're okay,” Derek is saying. He’s repeating this over and over, squatted in front of him. How can he even be here with Stiles? This is too much. It's asking too much of a relationship Stiles still can’t label after all these years.

Eventually Stiles manages a slow breath, and a curt nod. Anything to back Derek up so he isn't trapped against the wall.

Derek doesn't help Stiles up when he eventually stands, but his expression stays consistent in the way that Stiles knows he's treading very carefully.

He can’t look at him.

_I’m not breakable. I’m not breakable. I’m not broken._

They don’t stay at the motel; they pack quickly and head back onto the road.

(Re: The motel retreating in the side view mirror… Relief.)

 

** T . B . C **


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh sorry for this update being so late! 
> 
> I've been swamped with school and real life. But alas! I have prevailed through the mountains of school work and have emerged to post Chapter 2. 
> 
> So here it is! I hope you guys like it! (:

They break the Wisconsin border around two am, Stiles' head lolling to the side, blinking every so often in an attempt to keep his eyes from drooping. They pass streetlight after streetlight, the dull orange lights tracking across his face before passing again.

The car is a warm, cozy bubble protected from the bitter cold held just outside the car doors. The steady, low thrum of heat blowing through the air vents is a calming and lulling sound. Even though Derek stays alert, he still seems mildly lethargic: sitting up straight but only steering with one hand gripped at the bottom of the steering wheel, legs spread open languidly.

Stiles had fiddled with the radio, put his feet up on the dash – only for them to be swatted at by Derek – reached into the back for his kindle, squirmed in his chair, tried desperately not to have the silence between them grow into something awkward. Eventually, he had to settle for starring out the window.

They're both exhausted, and Stiles has a feeling it's not just from the _thrill_ of a long drive. The moment they pass the _Welcome to Wisconsin!_ Sign, they both simultaneously let out a relieved breath. They only have a few hours to go until they reach the cabin.

Stiles wanted anything _but_ to go to a cabin surrounded by other neighboring cottages, excuse him for not feeling particularly amiable. Derek had told him, as if he could sense his displeasure, that it was pretty secluded: no one lived or came within miles of the place. Stiles figured it would suffice.

He had told him, possibly because Stiles had given him a skeptical look, that it had been the reason he and Laura bought it. New York didn't really offer up many spacious lands to gallivant through while howling under the full moon.

They needed somewhere secluded, somewhere they could go where no one would see them when they turned all fury faced and fangified. _Obviously_ the only logical conclusion to their problem was to buy a cabin out in Wisconsin. Stiles thinks that they probably had more than enough life insurance money to afford it, then immediately feels guilty.

The road is relatively smooth, only offering up a few bumps and hitches as they drive along. It's soothing enough that when Stiles' eyes finally fall shut, he lets the slumber take him.

 

-○-

 

Stiles rouses to the sound of chirping birds and a persistent chill nipping at his nose. There's a moment where he decides to just go back to sleep, before he realizes his neck aches and his limbs are sprawled out in a really uncomfortable position.

He blinks a few times, the brightness of the winter morning causing him to squint. His arms are folded over his chest and his head is laid down on the arm rest. Heaven knows how he was even able to fall asleep in this position, or how he hadn't kicked Derek and caused them to swerve off the road.

Now that Stiles is returning to the land of the living, he realizes that they _are_ in fact on the side of the road. But Derek isn't unconscious next to him and Stiles isn't laid out in a bloody sprawl in front of the car, so he figures it's more likely they just pulled over.

He takes in a deep breath that transforms into a yawn, stretches his arms toward the roof of the car, and lifts his head only to spot Derek sitting on the hood of the Camaro. When he looks out his window, and then Derek's, all he can see surrounding them are cornfields.

He rubs at the back of his cramped neck as he steps – stumbles - out of the car, glancing at the long expanse of road before stuffing his hands in his coat pockets and walking over to Derek.

Derek doesn't acknowledge Stiles as he steps up next to him. His eyes are closed and his hands are stuffed in the pockets of his leather jacket, head tilted back and nostrils flaring slightly as though he's smelling the air.

With Derek occupied, Stiles takes a moment to regard Derek's dark lashes in contrast to the creamy color of his cheeks. He lost most of his tan as the weather began to cool down, not really a surprise, but it's still such a difference that it has become notable.

Especially up against the scruff on his face, long enough that it shouldn't be considered stubble but short enough that Stiles can see the same light skin underneath the black hair. Stiles wonders if it'd be coarse to the touch, maybe even smooth since Derek's facial hair has always been so stupidly well groomed.

Derek keeps his eyes closed when Stiles sits down, and they remain like that for a while. Sit in silence like how they had done back at the hospital. After a moment, Stiles follows Derek's lead, closes his eyes, tilts his head back so the breeze can not only run off his face but so he can smell it as it goes. The scent is grainy, frostbitten.

Stiles wonders where he would be had the curse been laid upon him while he was still in high school. While they were all still dragging themselves through hell and other assorted disasters. So many things have changed over the years, so many things have been thrown at them with little time in between to take a breath.

There were times when Stiles didn't know if he was going to make it out alive. Of course he knew everyone else would survive. Knew that the werewolves would be fine, and even without Isaac and Scott stumbling over themselves for her, Allison will always be able to hold her own. Lydia could outsmart any threat that faced her and come out on top, and Derek... Derek had been so different when he finally came back to Beacon Hills.

He had strolled up to one of Beacon Hills latest catastrophes buck-ass naked. Considering the generous amount of dirt he had been wearing at the time, Stiles suspects he had had some genuine one on one time with mother nature.

Stiles wouldn’t admit it, but he likes the new Derek. He had liked the old one as well, but this one carries himself differently. Walks around as if he's finally beginning to let go, no longer lets the weight of his past crush down on him like some twisted modern Atlas. Sure it slips every once in a while, and Derek curls back into himself for periods of time, but on the whole, he’s healing.

For however many moments there are when he struggles with his inner demons, there are just as many moments when he's patting Isaac on the back proudly. Moments when he's teaching Erica how to drive, or standing by Scott in the decisions he makes. It's easy to enjoy someone's presence when they've stopped hating themselves. Though Stiles isn't entirely sure that Derek has forgiven himself.  
  
Stiles thinks about how long it took him to bounce back after the nemeton shit-storm, how many people he had hurt and how much shit he had put his dad and the pack through. He wonders if the curse is the universes way of punishing him. God knows he shouldn't have been out in that clearing that day, he should have been home packing for college, making his dad breakfast or going down to the bakery to grab something for Mrs. McCall's birthday.  
  
It wasn't like everything that had happened was going to be fixed by the next day, Stiles understood that, but everything in his life had finally been getting back to normal. Everyone had stopped acting like one wrong move would make him snap, he had finally gotten a grip on what was _him_ and what was something else entirely.  
  
Figures that right as everything began to slot back into place, it had been shattered all over again.

“My mom used to stop at corn fields when we would go on road trips.” His voice is gravelly from disuse, eyes still closed as he licks at his dry lips and tries again. “She’d have us close our eyes so we didn't know where we were. Then we'd pile out and try to guess just by smelling.”

His eyes open then, slowly, as he turns to peer over at Stiles. The collar of his leather jacket is pulled up against his neck, the same way it has been many times before but only now seeming to match the weather.

Stiles lifts his head to look over at him. “I guess she was trying to teach us how strong our senses can be, even on their own, even _without_ the others.” Stiles stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks down at his lap.

He knows this is because of what happened at the motel, knows this is his fault, and he can only guess how miserable and self-pitying he must seem to Derek. The irony of the situation seems to be completely lost on Derek, which is sort of tragic in its own way.

He squeezes his eyes shut, chin pointed towards his chest, before shaking his head once and rising to his feet. When he sniffles, brings one of his hands out to wipe it along his nose, he tips his head towards the Camaro. The weather is getting colder, they should get to their destination before it's too late to drive up the mountain.

Derek presses his lips into a tight line, nods, and moves to stand. Stiles always seems to forget that he's a little taller than Derek, forgets how much he's grown in the past few years.

Stiles is the first to turn away, the first to get in the car, but Derek isn't too far behind.

 

-○-

 

Derek nods at a passing sign a few miles down the road, the sign marking just how far away the next town is. “We need to get gas,” he informs, and Stiles nods. However small the gesture might be, it's still nice being told what's happening instead of trying to figure it out by himself. Stiles wonders if Derek is doing it for Stiles' benefit. If he could talk, he'd be asking questions every few minutes; when they're getting gas, when they're getting food, when they can pull over so Stiles can take a piss. Then again, if he could talk, they wouldn't be on this trip to begin with.

It's not like Derek gives him a play by play of every passing thought and decision he makes, but it settles something inside Stiles. The same something that _needs_ to know what's happening at every moment of every day.

Just like Derek and the sign had said, they come upon a small town a few more miles down the road. Stiles is trying to find an audible radio station as Derek pulls into a Chevron that has an ’h’ and an 'n' flashing every so often.

Stiles finally stumbles upon a station playing a song by Passenger when Derek kills the engine. He's pouting when Derek turns to him.

The older man rolls his eyes, “It'll probably play another hundred times while we're driving up the mountain.” He's reaching for something in his pocket then, and when he pulls out his wallet he's opening it and then offering Stiles his credit card. “Get the gas, I have to get something inside.”

Stiles gives him a suspicious look, for all the – possibly – hundreds of gas stations they have stopped at, not once had Derek gone inside. Or better yet, let Stiles go inside. Because quote, “they didn't need any junk food since they had enough of it in the back.”

When actually, they _don't_. They have _nuts_ , and Stiles thinks he saw alfalfa but he can't be sure because he had retreated before he could uncover the really scary stuff. Derek obviously hadn't received the memo explaining to him that he's a _werewolf_ and doesn't have to eat flavorless _nuts_ in order to keep his figure. He could probably eat all the Funyuns he wanted and yet, they are both Funyun-less. Stiles' only saving grace is the dozens of sandwiches they still have packed away in the ice chest.

Derek nudges the card forward, “Don't worry,” he says, “I'll only be gone a second.”

Stiles gawks at him, because the tone of Derek's voice suggests that he assumes Stiles doesn't want to be left _alone_.

Stiles doesn't want Derek getting any ideas, like them sharing one panic induced ‘moment’ in the back of an alley suddenly means Stiles has _abandonment_ issues.

Stiles snatches the blue card – Chase? Stiles had pegged Derek for a Bank of America type of guy – and flails against his seat belt until it's coming loose and he can step out of the car. Derek is already out of the car by then, and he watches Stiles over the roof of the car with a mildly amused expression.

When Stiles reaches the pump, he waves Derek off. Only Derek is grabbing his wrist and pulling him forward so that he can get at the palm of his hand. Understandably, Stiles stumbles a little bit, given the fact that normal people don't just _grab_ at other people without any warning.

Derek doesn't seem deterred though, just pulls a pen out of god knows where and starts scribbling something on Stiles' palm. “It's the credit card number,” Derek explains after Stiles had been quietly staring at him with a inquisitive look on his face. Once he writes what must be the last number, he looks up at Stiles, “It's kind of important.”

Stiles gives him an unimpressed look when he drops his hand and turns to walk towards the gas station, his palm tingles.

 

-○-

 

Derek comes out of the gas station a few minutes after Stiles has filled the tank, carrying what looks to be nothing. Once he slips into the car, Stiles gives him an expectant look, automatically taking his feet off of the dash before Derek can say something.

Derek sighs, and almost looks begrudging when he reaches inside his pocket to grab something that crinkles under his fingers. He tosses it over onto Stiles' lap and twists to reach for his seat belt.

Stiles' face breaks out into a grin when he sees the single, off-brand Twinkie laying in his lap. Derek is already backing the car up and pointedly not looking at Stiles, but he doesn't care; he opens the Twinkie and breaks it in two, offering one of the halves to Derek by holding it out in front of his face.

His eyebrows crease, “It's for you.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, tries his hardest to convey 'no shit' just with his eyebrows alone. Maybe Derek could give him a few pointers on 'communicating through eyebrows.'

“I'm pretty sure those things induce heart attacks,” he says dryly, and even if they did Derek would just heal a minute later. He leans over further, and practically waves it in Derek's face. Stiles thinks Derek needs to expand his 'only eat the completely inedible' policy and indulge on the wonders of the culinary world.

Maybe that message gets through to Derek in some way because he's sighing and plucking the spongy treat out of his hands, popping it into his mouth.

The Passenger song comes on a couple minutes later.

 

-○-

 

It starts to snow on the drive up the mountain.

It's flaky and still too moist for it to stick to the ground, but it's still snow and Stiles will take it where he can get it. The last time he saw snow, he had barely had enough to construct one tiny snow man. Even though it had already started to melt after completion, his mom still gave him a baby carrot to use for it's nose and took as many pictures as she could.

The tiny crystals bleach the sky and color the atmosphere cool while effectively dropping the temperature in the car down a couple degrees. Derek's hand goes to the controls not seconds after the snow begins to fall, and though he could stand in a freezer and be perfectly warm – he blasts the heat through the vents.

Stiles appreciates it, the whole 'not having to ask' in order for things to be done. It makes Stiles wonder if Derek is doing it for his benefit, or if he had always done it and Stiles is just now noticing. It's astounding how many things come into perspective when all you can do is listen and observe.

Like how Derek sometimes flickers his gaze Stiles' way when he thinks he's not looking, or how he looks in the rear view mirror more times than necessary, as if he's making sure the dangers of Beacon Hills aren't following them.

When the road starts to wind, Stiles has to close his eyes and lean back in his seat so he doesn't get road sick, which used to happen on the road trips he would take with his mom and dad. When he opens his eyes again, the trees surrounding them are dusted with snow.

Derek clears his throat some minutes later, “It's just up here,” his voice sounds misplaced in the car, the silence slowly becoming the norm for them.

The more they drive the more Stiles grasps just how secluded this place must be, they haven't passed any signs of civilization for miles.

When they finally come up on the cabin, Stiles almost doesn't spot it due to the towering pine trees that surround it. Of course, when they pull up in front, Stiles can see just how big it actually is. It reaches to two stories and looks to be constructed completely from red oak. There's a porch that's wraps around the back and a balcony on the side to match.

Normally he would make some crack about how Derek takes 'camping with style' to a whole new level, but instead, he twists and reaches into the backseat for the winter coat he had packed.

Derek is already hauling things out of the back when Stiles steps out of the car, the scent of pine and oak overwhelms his senses and he's reminded of why he always used to love camping when he was little.

Only now, he wont be curled up between his mom and dad in their three person tent. He's miles away from home, from civilization, and the world is finally silent.

He closes his eyes, takes in one more deep breath, and goes to grab their things.

 

-○-

 

Stiles had somehow forgotten that this cabin was for Laura and Derek, is soon reminded of this fact when he climbs the stairs leading up onto the porch where two wooden chairs sit. They look like they haven't been sat in for years.

Derek pushes his way into the cabin moments before Stiles joins him inside, and if it's possible it smells even more of pine than it does outside. There are tall wooden beams reaching from the middle of the cabin up to the roof, the surface of them varnished and smooth to the touch. Stiles' eyes follow them all the way up, and he can see that the upstairs is actually a loft, a black iron staircase in the corner twists it's way to the landing.

A small kitchen nook is set up to his left, what looks to be a coffee maker and some plates all that remains on the granite counter tops. He spots a hallway leading back behind the kitchen, leading to what could be bedrooms or a bathroom.

To his right a sofa with green cushions and a red quilt draped over the back sits in front of a fireplace, a rug with the image of a wolf laid out between the two.

Derek walks over and sets some of the bags on the sofa, catching what Stiles is looking at and saying “Laura thought it was funny,” almost reverently.

Stiles nods, not sure he can do anything else. He feels as if he's intruding on something private, disrupting a memory perfectly preserved. Stiles has never heard Derek talk about Laura before, always assumed that it was just too painful to bring up. As he watches him, though, smiling fondly down at the ridiculous wolf rug, Stiles now realizes he didn't have any happy memories to share about her back in Beacon Hills. Or at least, none that hadn't been tarnished.

Derek has already turned back towards the couch, going through one of the bags when he looks over his shoulder at Stiles. He raises an eyebrow, “Are you gonna shut the door?”

Stiles blinks, and turns to do so.

 

\----

-TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is super awesome and really appreciated.
> 
>  [(tumblr)](http://raisesomehale.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey babes!
> 
> This chapter is super short and I'm not completely 100% happy with it, I'll admit, but it's also super late and I wanted to get something out before too much time went by between updates.
> 
> I have no other excuse for this being so late other than the fact that I'm insane and thought taking on 10 other writing projects was a good idea?
> 
> But! You have my word that I am working on this fic every chance I get and will have another chapter up as soon as I can!
> 
> Beta'd by [Neda](http://nedafish.tumblr.com/)

Stiles soon finds the cabin's soft ambiance to be tranquil instead of gloomy, the empty space having existed within nature for so long that the aroma of rich earth and crisp air is a permanent embedding in every wooden nook and cranny. He finds himself wondering if Laura's scent still lingers in the wooden paneling, if Derek can pick her out between the sharp hitches of pine and musty old water.

Perhaps she remains in certain areas, corners she might have favored over others. Maybe the window seat positioned under the window, the one overviewing the kitchen, or even the balcony that juts out of the second story.

Perhaps time has erased everything but her ghost and her memory.

If Derek does detect any redolences of the past, he chooses not to voice it.

Stiles busies himself with unloading what little dishes they had brought - most of which are made from plastic - into the assorted cupboards in the kitchen nook. There is a ridiculous amount of cabinet and counter space given the small area.

The dark speckled granite combined with the cupboards that exceed it - lining half of the far wall, curving to cover most of the adjacent wall as well - give the nook an illusion of being smaller than it really is, more snug.

At closer inspection, Stiles notices the cabinets are made from pine, explaining why the smell had been so pungent upon walking through the door. All of their plastic plates, cups, utensils, and napkins could easily fit inside one cabinet, and Stiles deems the one farthest to the left as good a choice as any.

Upon opening the cabinet, Stiles takes pause when he's faced with a multicolored ceramic bowl. It looks to have been crafted by hand, the rim bearing the implications of nimble fingers attempting to smooth out rough edges. Even though the surface is imperfect, Stiles thinks it looks better that way. Allusions to memories made, and preserved within the timber walls of the cupboard.

He detects movement out of the corner of his eye and glances slowly away from the bowl and out the wide window. There stands Derek at the back of the Camaro, and while he can't see all of Derek due to the lifted hood, he catches glimpses of him as he sifts through the contents of the trunk.

Stiles turns back to the opened cabinet, blinking at the colorful dish before carefully taking it into his hands. It's heavier than he had expected, and when he smooths his thumbs down the side, he can feel all the subtle ridges and humps that cover the surface.

He isn't sure what to do with it, if he should maybe ask Derek. In the end he sets it back down, positioned exactly where he had found it, and fills the space around it with the plastic dishes and utensils.

A passing thought wonders if the other cupboards hold small treasures, but Derek makes his way back into the cabin before Stiles has the chance to snoop. He shuts the cabinet and turns to face the older man. Even though he's paces away from the door, the slick chill that slips past Derek and into the cabin still manages to slither it's way up the back of Stiles' shirt.

He rubs his hands over his arms at the intrusion, and Derek raises his eyes at the movement. He sets the rest of the bags by the sofa and starts to pull of his gloves, “If you think that's cold, you're in for one hell of a night.”

Stiles scowls at him and crosses his arms over his chest before leaning against the counter behind him. He isn't sure what's suppose to happen now that they're here, and maybe he should have given that a little bit more thought beforehand. But then his stomach is growling and both he and Derek glance down at his abdomen. Food isn't the worst place to start at least.

Stiles lifts his gaze from his stomach to find that Derek is already reaching for the food chest on the floor and bringing it over to set on the table. Stiles moves to join him and stares down at the remainder of their food.

“I'll have to go back into town tomorrow to stock up on food,” Derek muses as he holds up the last two sandwiches and a package of apricot kernels. Stiles lands him with an unimpressed look and reaches for the maroon colored package.

With Derek's eyes on him, Stiles turns and walks over to throw them in the trash to prove a point. Point being that: while Stiles is an equal opportunity type of guy - is willing to give anything a chance – he can't survive on organic foods alone. He points to where the apricot kernels lay in the trash and gives him a concise look.

Derek rolls his eyes, “They aren't that bad.”

Coming from the man who once mentioned the months he had survived on rabbit alone, his words aren't exactly persuasive in the way he probably hopes. He's hungry, though, so instead of pushing it he plucks one of the wrapped sandwiches out of Derek's hands and takes a seat at the table. He'll just accompany Derek into town so that he has no other choice but to buy proper food.

Stiles unwraps his sandwich leisurely as Derek takes a seat opposite him. The table only has two chairs, both look to have been made from the same dark oak the table was made from. If Stiles looks closely, he can make out where hot mugs were placed without coasters, where silverware marked the surface or where spilled liquid had been forgotten.

He takes comfort in the silence that ensues while they eat their food. All their meals together have ended up the same: they eat in silence and clean up in silence unless Derek brings it upon himself to strike up a one-sided conversation. Derek isn't exactly an enthusiast when it comes to conversations involving two people, so it comes as no surprise he rarely attempts a conversation all on his own.

Stiles had never liked the silence before, it had pestered and slithered itself into the confines of his subconscious until he couldn't stand it any longer. Had to fill it with mindless tapping or humming, mumbles of wasted breath Stiles is now understanding were precious.

He wonders how many sentences he'd have now if he could collect all the pointless, unimportant words he had blown off in nullity. Suppose he could fill the silence for years until his voice died out again.

Stiles doesn't know which fate is worse, knowing that your words will eventually run out or having them stolen from you without any warning at all.

As the crepitated sound of the cabin settling around them reaches his ears, as the scattered underbrush scratches against the veranda, Stiles thinks he still hates the silence.

Yet, it's still better than having it be filled by the mouths of those who pity him.

Derek's face is calm and relaxed when Stiles glances at him from across the table, and he thinks that he hasn't seen pity in Derek's eyes once since the clearing.

 

-○-

 

After they've eaten and cleaned up what little mess they had made, Stiles pulls out his phone and thumbs through his contacts. His dad would be expecting to hear from him soon, and Stiles knows he would appreciate a phone call more than a text message. That is, if they even get service when out this far.

Calling up his dad and having to stay silent the entire conversation is an experience Stiles would rather avoid, so he takes a seat next to Derek on the couch and holds the phone out to him. Derek gathers the phone in his hands and looks down at it, no doubt noting which contact page Stiles had left open on the screen.

He makes a costive look down at the screen and Stiles smacks his knee. Derek looks up at him and Stiles raises both eyebrows, leveling him with a look he hopes Derek translates as saying, 'you better call my dad and let him know I'm alive or there will be hell to pay.'

Maybe Derek is so well versed in the language of the eyebrows that he actually understands, because he's sighing and tapping at the screen before holding it up to his ear.

Derek's voice is gruff when he speaks into the phone, “Sheriff, it's Derek.” Stiles rolls his eyes, and imagines his dad does the same, who else would be calling him on his mute sons phone? “Yes sir, just calling to let you know we reached the cabin,” Stiles can't hear his dad, but he must be lecturing Derek about something because he's suddenly sitting up straighter and shifting in his seat. Are the tips of his ears turning pink? “Of course sir, I understand. I'll make sure to do that, yes,” Derek's head dips and he looks down at his lap when he says the next part, “You have my word.”

When they hang up and Derek passes the phone back to Stiles, he's giving him a questioning look.

“He wants to be sure that I won't let you fall off the edge of the mountain,” Derek deadpans and shifts around so that his legs are spread out and his arms are crossed over his chest as he lays his head back against the sofa.

Stiles glares at him, but Derek is already closing his eyes. Still, Stiles doesn't doubt the twitching of his lips means he knows just how Stiles is looking at him.

 

-○-

 

Stiles is laying his head back against the sofa when Derek suggests sleep. The sofa more than makes up for it's hideous color by being ridiculously comfortable, and Stiles wouldn't mind all that much if he had to sleep on it tonight. Derek is already rising to his feet, though, so it's only appropriate that Stiles joins him.

They haven't talked much since they ate, or at least – Derek hasn't talked much, and Stiles would be lying if he said the silence they've both accepted between them isn't comfortable.

Derek had stoked the fire once the sun fell behind the mountains, which happened a lot earlier than it normally does in California. In retrospect, Stiles should still be brimming with energy, but in reality all he wants to do is shove his head into a nice soft pillow and sleep.

The hardwood flooring creeks with every step the two of them take, Stiles following Derek past the kitchen and down the dark hallway. Whilst he is silently hoping the bed count is a few more than what they were offered at the motel, Derek steers off to the right and opens a door Stiles hadn't even noticed. To be fair, the only light source is coming from the fireplace in the living room and the door has no indentation to alert someone of it's existence.

“There's three bedrooms,” Derek informs and pushes the door ajar. “You can sleep in this one, or the one in the loft. Whichever you'd like.” Derek's hand ghosts along the wall and flicks on the light, illuminating a light blue room with a queen sized bed pressed up against the far wall. A small work table and lamp are situated opposite the bed, and what looks to be the pelt of some animal is laid out on the dresser positioned under the window.

It screams of Derek, of simplicity and order, but it also implies restraint and solitary. Thinking back to the years Derek and Laura would have used this cabin makes it understandable in a way; if Stiles had blamed himself for the death of his family, he wouldn't have allowed himself anymore than the bare minimum either.

It perturbs Stiles in a way, to think of the Derek who had resided in these walls. If the way Derek shifts uncomfortably is anything to go on, he doesn't enjoy the memory either.

It's possibly the first time Stiles truly understands how monumental this is for Derek, how hard it must have been for him to come back here and open himself up to his past.

Derek interrupts his heavy thoughts by clearing his throat, “The loft is more spacious than this, if you want to sleep up there.”

Stiles nods and lets Derek shut the light and door, before he's realizing what Derek had said earlier. His eyebrows pinch together as he comes out of the hallway, turns to look at Derek and holds up three fingers to represent the three bedrooms Derek had mentioned.

Derek looks at his fingers and seems to understand immediately, “The third bedroom was Laura's,” he shrugs. Stiles hesitates a moment, but that seems to be all Derek has to say on the matter. So he nods and moves to grab his things.

Derek stops stiles before he can make his way to the spiral staircase, and when Stiles turns to him fully he's offered a heavy blanket. “I wasn't lying about how cold it can get,” his voice feels so soft when the only other noise in the cabin is the crackling of the fire.

Stiles brushes a hand over the blanket and offers Derek a small smile of thanks.

Derek returns it without hesitation, says, “Goodnight, Stiles,” and then slips out of view as he enters the hallway once again.

Stiles blinks at where Derek had slipped out of view, and then turns to walk up the spiral staircase.

He nearly chokes when he reaches the landing, and promptly trips over his own feet as he meets the eyes of the grizzly bear staring up at him. Raising his eyebrows in disbelief at the tacky rug, he can't help but smile just a little bit. No way that was Derek's idea.

Or, maybe it was. That thought causes Stiles' grin to grow even larger.

Once he's gotten over the décor, he takes in the rest of the furniture situated around the room. The roof dips down on his right, and leaves room for nothing more than the brown chest under it. A bed that looks much larger than the one in Derek's room takes up the left corner and a small side table sits beside it. There's a dresser placed against the left wall and two glass doors stand directly in front of him. The doors to the balcony, he presumes.

He pointedly steps around the rug, contemplates rolling it up and setting it aside all together, and then spreads the blanket out on the already made bed. No doubt some dust has accumulated on the bed over the years, but Stiles couldn't care less about that when his eyelids grow heavier and heavier by the second.

Shoes and pants off, he crawls under the blankets and wraps his arms around the soft pillow.

He dreams of words unspoken.

 

 

\----

 

-TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! Chapter 4 is finally up.
> 
> This chapter fought me tooth and claw the entire way to the end but ah ha! I finally was able to finish it.
> 
> To those who have stuck with this fic this far - you are all angels sent from heaven. I know I don't get these chapters out as quickly as I would like, but whenever I do post them every comment/kudos/bookmark/and view means the world to me. You all rock♥
> 
> (As you can see I have updated the tags and rating. I have rated this as such because of some pretty graphic depictions of violence. Also, I was told by my beta that I should add some trigger warnings for this fic and thought adding them in the tags was the safest bet, but if you're worried this chapters content might trigger you in some way, see the end of the chapter's notes where I'll explain the content.)

A faint buzzing pulls him from sleep, and when he opens his eyes to the dark blue and black shadows the moon casts across the loft, he knows it's still well into the night.

For a moment he's confused as to what woke him, disorientation clouding his eyes as he lifts himself up on to his elbows to peer around the room. From this angle he can see a dim white light shining from the floor.

He shifts, the bed dipping as he peers over the edge, and comes face to face with his phone, fallen onto the floor while he slept. He can't remember the last time he charged it, and it’s a miracle in and of itself that it hasn't died yet. His dad had to replace at least four phones during Stiles' time in high school, and after he accidentally dropped this one in the toilet, he had officially put his foot down.

The rice he had left it in over night had successfully sucked out the water and – supposedly – the problem, but it was only after he had gotten back into the habit of using it that he realized how quickly it died.

Rubbing at his eyes, he reaches out to snatch the phone from the ground, quickly pulling his arm and himself out of the cool air and back into the warmth of the blankets. Once he's well situated and comfortable, he lifts the phone in front of his face.

He's expecting a text from Scott or his dad, maybe even an alert informing him that his phone is about to die, for the ten thousandth time. What he isn't expecting, isn't prepared for, is to tap the screen and read the words, R E M I N D E R, in large, red letters. He feels like he's just gone off the dip of a roller coaster – swooping, sobering – when he reads the reminder he set months ago.

 

 **R E M I N D E R** for _January 10_ _th_

 

last day to bu y american lit books!!! 

still need:

anthology of american lit.

the american tradition in lit. (pper bck) 

too pricey on amazon –

try the trevor dude on craigslist again

 

 

Stiles' throat clicks as he swallows, he remembers the day he had put the reminder into his phone, it had been the day he received emails from all his teachers listing what books and supplies he'd need for the new semester. He set it for a day in advance so that he wouldn't forget.

A few swipes of his finger across the screen sees that every reminder of his old life is deleted, figuratively and literally. He doesn't need them anymore, doesn't need some two hundred dollar text book that he'll only use for a semester and then never touch again. That's not his life anymore. It can't be.

He lets the phone drop back to the floor, not caring where it ends up, and turns towards the white wall the bed is pushed up against. Pulling the covers tightly over himself, he only wishes he'd gotten more sleep before his phone went off and woke him up.

 

-○-

 

_Memories are a constant, until they're not._

_Until they're nothing but sleek ambiguities, slipping through rusted grates until the point of no return._

_His memories had been the first thing to leak._

_Not remembering how he ended up sprawled across the shoddy seats of some train station frightened him, sure, but it wouldn't have been nearly as terrifying if he hadn't also awoken to find that three days had passed since his last accurate recollection of time._

_An armchair had pressed painfully into his back, and he had wondered how long he had been laying there, if - like the people currently passing him by with no more than a lingering glance – no one had even thought to make sure he was okay._

_He had looked down to find that he was barefoot, a thick, metallic smelling liquid staining the front of the pyjama shirt he had put on a few nights ago._

_The bathroom door smacked loudly against the linoleum as he had shoved his way into it, hands beginning to tremble as he peeled the sticky fabric from his skin to reveal no visible wound. No noise filled the small bathroom but his heavy breathing as his back hit and slid down one of the walls._

 

_He often wonders if he's still dreaming._

 

Stiles jerks from sleep - no doubt due to the heavy beat of his heart, an occurrence he's intimately familiar with - and takes in a soft gasp of air.

The sheets crumple under his fists, and the slanted roof is a well enough focal point to anchor himself to as he slowly, one by one, taps each of his fingers against the mattress.

_One, two, three..._

The nightmares never seem to stay away for long, he should be grateful they kept their distance for the duration of his and Derek's drive. Even so, he should have known better than to think being two thousand miles away from where they began would make a difference.

_Eight, nine, ten._

He stretches his feet down towards the edge of the bed, the pounding of his heart receding back into a steady rhythm. Or at least, as steady a rhythm as it'll get. He reluctantly pushes the warmth he has accumulated over the night off of him, a weight like an anvil weighing heavy on his chest when he turns to hang his feet off the side of the bed and sees where his phone was discarded mere hours beforehand.

He blinks at it, jaw clenched, and leaves it lying there when he stands up.

It’s early morning and he contemplates going downstairs, if Derek's awake he suspects he'll want to leave for town soon. Arms folded, he walks over to the railing, peers down into the living room and kitchen nook. The light of the morning has yet to wrap itself around this area of the cabin, and the open space is void of any lurking Dereks.

He slips into some jeans – stumbling momentarily on the head of the grizzly bear and kicking at it impatiently – before toeing his way down the staircase, the metal cold against his bare feet.

The hardwood floor creaks with every step he takes towards the front door and he slips into the shoes he had left by the paneling. The wide porch wraps around to the back, where a small shed Derek had told him about stands a few feet away from the cabin. Stiles grabs a few blocks of wood from inside and trudges back into the house, shivering and shaking off the few stray snowflakes that had caught on his person.

After he's started the fire and a bit of circulation has returned to his fingers and toes, Stiles climbs the stairs back up to the loft, not chancing a glance at his phone. He busies himself with unpacking, passing the time until Derek wakes and he's no longer left alone with his thoughts.

The dresser at the end of the bed is stubborn as hell, and he has to yank back and to the right to get it open. When he's finished he glares at the bureau, and when he turns he spots an outlet next to the antique brown chest.

He taps his fingers against his thigh, letting out a deep breath and scratching his fingers through his hair before he walks over to the bed and scoops his phone up from the floor.

After deciding opening the chest would probably be some kind of invasion of privacy, he settles for leaving his phone charging on it's surface. Almost bumping his head against the lowered roof finds him slouching forward as he takes a seat.

It's probably too early to text Scott, he thinks as he eyes his phone. They haven't talked much since he left Beacon Hills, just the occasional, ' _checked into a motel for the night'_ or ' _just crossed the state_ _border,'_ text.

He wishes he could call Scott and talk to him until his voice is hoarse, just like they used to do when they were younger and first got their very own phones.

They don't do it as much anymore, the long phone calls. Not that they don't want to, just that they don't often find themselves in situations where they can blow three hours on the phone. Suppose it's the price to growing up, to living in a world where a supernatural target seems to always find it's way onto their backs.

Scott had understood when he heard about Stiles and Derek heading for the mountains, had pulled Stiles in close and whispered ' _you're going to be okay_ ' and ' _don't turn into a recluse old mountain man,_ shave.'

Stiles has no doubts that Scott would have taken Stiles away from Beacon Hills had he asked, but Stiles hadn't dared. Scott was needed in Beacon Hills, he was the Alpha and he needed to protect the town and his pack, Stiles understood that.

He leaves the phone on the chest and yanks socks and shoes on with sharp tugs before slipping out onto the balcony.

The snow tipped pines stand unmoving in front of him, the rays of sun that shine through the individual branches leave golden haloes at every tip and needle. The early morning birds whistle and echo around the semi circle of trees; Stiles shuts his eyes and clenches his jaw.

He tries to tell himself that what happened last night shouldn't make his chest feel as knotted as it does. Tries to remember that he's here for a reason, that the isolation was what he had asked for, something that he was sure would fix what was lacking. He doesn't know when exactly he'd forgotten that he can't be fixed, doesn't know why he had to be reminded of that by an alert on his phone.

His head is tilted back, warm breath curling against the frigid air in white puffs, when he hears the door sliding open behind him. He turns to watch Derek step out onto the balcony, wearing snow boots under threadbare jeans and a jacket that looks a lot more cold resistant than Stiles' thin hoodie.

His hair's still a bit mussed from sleep, voice rough from disuse. “Thought you'd be here when I couldn't find you in the cabin,” Derek grunts and scratches at the scruff that's grown in under his jaw as he walks over to where Stiles stands. His eyes are still a little puffy from sleep, and he squints as he looks out over the horizon. Stiles turns to do the same.

They watch as two blue birds flutter around each other a few feet above a pine. Maybe at another time in Stiles' life he would have found the view before him to be cathartic. Watching it now feels impossible while the echo of his dream still lingers, making his fingers itch.

Derek opens his mouth like he's going to say something, and takes pause to lick his lips before he actually does. “Did someone call you last night?” It's a question Stiles wasn't expecting, and he scrunches his eyebrows and gives Derek a quizzical look.

Derek hums thoughtfully. “Nevermind,” he murmurs, then muses softly, “Should probably head into town soon. Do you wanna come?”

Keeping his gaze on the horizon, Stiles nods, choosing to ignore the flare of tension that twists around his spine at the mention of going into town. Out of the corner of his eye Stiles can see that Derek's glancing at him, no doubt he can probably smell what ever Stiles is feeling. Scott once told him that the scent of tension makes his nose itch.

Derek leans his forearms against the railing, “Do you want to shower first, or should I?”

 

-○-

 

Stiles showers quickly and stiltedly, scrubs himself down with a body wash that smells like coal tar and lets the spray wash over him before getting out. He leaves the bathroom dressed and Derek is quick to move into the bathroom after him.

Snow melts against the windshield when they finally roll into the small town at the bottom of the mountain. The town really only has three separate restaurants – two of which are drive throughs and all of which are places Stiles has never heard of before. It wouldn't surprise him to find out it's because they're all family owned.

Derek decides on a small, yellow, box shaped restaurant next to an antique shop. There's a weird feeling as Derek drives away from the restaurant, his posture stiff and expression blank.

He tries to push it from his mind, figures he could very well be projecting his discomfort with being in public onto Derek. They eat in silence, and Stiles chalks it up to his imagination when he catches a couple of guys suspiciously glancing away when he looks in his side view mirror.

 

-○-

 

Stiles squints up at the light flickering above the dairy section in the grocery, finds that it makes his eye want to twitch along with it. In the short time they've been in the grocery, Stiles has seen three fleeing bodies disappear behind an isle every time he so much as looks around.

His fingers feel stiff when he grips the milk and sets it in the cart, pushes by Derek when he gets more 'I don't know why you're upset but I'd _like_ to know why' looks.

“We should get bread,” Derek says distractedly as he glares at the cereal selection. They've been standing here for a good few minutes because Derek can't decide between Corn Flakes and Raisin Bran.

Stiles looks over at him from where he's leaning against the shelves opposite the cereal, trying to tamp down the agitation that dances with his insides. He stalks forward and grabs a box of Raisin Bran, Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and drops them both in the cart before setting off towards the bread.

 

-○-

 

The cool air feels sharp against Stiles' nose and does nothing to ease his stiffness. Derek's hand is a warmth at the small of his back as they walk, groceries in hand, and he feels like they can't get to the car fast enough.

It feels like suffocation and he hates it, hates that he can't seem to tamp down what feels like paranoia and straining. Somewhere buried under the frustration, he knows he's probably imagining the scrutiny; no one knows him here in this small town, no one has reason to be following them.

They get to the car and load it with the groceries just in time for a bottle to shatter against the alley wall behind them. A drunken voice calls out to them, “'Ey, faggots!” and it has to be ironic how this man is the first person Stiles has heard speak to them directly.

Derek doesn't even flinch when the man calls out, keeps his back turned and attention on the car. Stiles on the other hand doesn't follow suit, and his blood immediately runs cold when he faces the man and realizes he recognizes him. Stumbling down the alley towards them, is one of the guys that he saw in his rear view mirror, one of the faces that disappeared around a corner at the shop.

Derek is saying his name now, low like a warning but Stiles is already stepping towards the guy, all things forgotten as he clumsily signs out, ' _Who the fuck are you and why have you been following us?_ '

Stiles barely notices Derek's hand leaving his shoulder like he's been burned, instead zeroing in on the man as he laughs. It's an ugly sound that's pushed through his teeth, “Not only did you get yourself a piece of loose-assed jailbait, but he's also a fuckin' mute?” It does nothing but confuse and anger him before he's realizing the guy's talking to _Derek_ , looking over Stiles like he doesn't even warrant so much as a glance.

Stiles is helpless to stop it when the band of tension stretching him thin finally snaps, mere moments after the mans mouth opens again. “'Least he can't say no-” his words cut off as Stiles slams him back against the alley wall, no sound but the wet, guttural noise punched from his throat.

Somewhere in the distance there's a commotion, but the world isn't in focus anymore. Stiles' ears are ringing when he grabs hold of the guys jacket flaps and bares him down on the ground.

His entire body flares to life as the heat that's been filling him to the brim spreads under his skin like molten iron. All the anger and tension seethes through his veins until it's settling heavily in Stiles' fists, the pain sharp and unforgiving as it scalds across his knuckles. He needs it out, gone, and right now it feels like the only way to do that is by pounding to the brunt.

Stiles' hands throb to the point of numbness as he throws punch after punch, he sees and feels nothing but the color red. Nothing else matters but pushing out the inadequacy that's built up every since he woke up in the hospital, the fury that sears so bright he can feel it in his _toes_.

His world shifts startlingly as someone yanks him upright and away from the body on the ground, and not a second later _he's_ the one being pushed back into the alley wall.

Stiles wrenches in their hold, heat not from the cold flush across his face as he brings his hands up to bang on the broad chest before him instead.

His hands pound sharply, but the relenting sting that spikes with every strike does nothing but make his blows heavier. He pounds again and again, harder and surer because this special twist of pain feels intoxicating, feels _good_ , and because whoever is holding him won't _let him go_.

He wonders if it's been years or seconds, if both or neither. Wonders why whoever it is in front of him makes no attempt to stop Stiles' tantrum, and Stiles thinks to switch tactics, go for a more vulnerable part of the body.

It's a frigid bucket of water when he goes to do just that and his eyes are met with Derek.

He hiccups out a gasp as his blood runs cold for the second time that day, body instantly going limp in Derek's hold. Contrition strikes an unforgiving path up his spine; he can do nothing but stare at Derek with wide eyes and a slack-jaw mouth.

It shouldn't, but it feels like heartache to see the honest concern in Derek's eyes.

Stiles' mouth works, desperately for a moment because he'd forgotten that he can't speak, can't apologize, and that second of oblivion causes him to bite down on his lip, hard, and furrow his brows against the sorrow that wants to force it's way out of him. The sorrow that's been nestled so long inside him he had forgotten it was there.

His face is wet, with tears and maybe blood, and he can only imagine how blotchy he must be.

Derek's hands wrap around Stiles' fists, which are still pressed against his chest, and gently pulls them away. “Stiles,” his voice is soft when he speaks, and for some reason that's what makes Stiles cringe, press further back against the alley wall.

An expression that Stiles can't read flashes across Derek's face, there and gone and along with it leaves Derek's hands. Stiles tells himself he's not allowed to miss them.

A voice from behind them calls out Derek's name, and he gives Stiles a long, hesitant look before he's stepping away.

Stiles doesn't know where Derek has gone, doesn't know why the brick wall in front of him looks clouded and blurred. His feet move without his permission, nothing is in focus. Nothing but the strip of land he's stumbling across exists. Did anything else exist to begin with?

He doesn't see the man he had attacked because he doesn't look, the path to the car filled with blurred consciousness and hitched breaths. He wonders why people don't explain their feelings exclusively in colors, in shades, because all Stiles feels is a twisting blackness when he reaches the car and slips inside.

It's a testament to his current cognizance when he only realizes that Derek isn't by him when he looks up and sees him standing with a man by the bar. The man has dark hair and a tattoo twisting from his neck down into his shirt. A white apron wrapped around his waist suggests that he works at the bar, and he and Derek look to be talking in hushed tones as various people rush about around them.

Stiles looks down at his lap, and in the next few moments Derek is opening the door and sliding into his seat.

His face is screwed up and scrunched when he sticks the keys in the ignition, and Stiles glances out the window in time to see the apron guy waving as Derek drives away.

There are no words spoken in between the town and the cabin. The heat is a low blast in the car, Derek's hands clenching hard against the steering wheel when Stiles turns to look out the window.

Stiles has never hated the silence as much as he hates it in this moment.

 

-○-

 

When they arrive back at the cabin the air between them feels stilted, but it's not like Stiles was expecting anything less. The blood on Stiles' knuckles, whether it be his own or … _some_ one else's has dried uncomfortably around the fresh cuts that threaten to split open and bleed further.

When Stiles steps out of the car, he has half a mind to run off into the nearby woods, as to avoid whatever constipated look will cross Derek's face next.

He doesn't get a chance to flee the scene, though, because when Derek steps out of the car he's walking around to Stiles' side and softly nudging him towards the cabin. “Come on,” his fingers are light, prompting when they wrap around Stiles' bicep, and he motions to Stiles' bloody hand with his free one. “We need to clean those cuts.”

Stiles lets himself be guided into the cabin, lets Derek softly push him down onto the window seat before he's disappearing down the hallway. Stiles lets his hands rest in his lap, and when Derek emerges he's carrying a red first aid kit in one hand, and one damp and one dry towel in the other.

He takes a seat by Stiles and rolls the first aid kit out between them, “Here,” he says, and holds out his hand, palm facing up. Stiles places his bloodied hand in Derek's, lets Derek slowly tug it towards him, fingers pressing gently against the sides of his wrist and hand.

He uses the first towel, the damp one, to wipe off the dried blood. A shiver vibrates through him as Derek drags the towel down each of his individual fingers, wrapping around to clean the webbing in between just as slowly. It feels oddly intimate, the gentle, attentive touches, the fact that if Stiles were to shift his fingers by just a little, they'd be holding hands.

He's thankful for the hiss of pain, the distraction that comes from the hydrogen peroxide that Derek had dipped the other towel in. “Sorry,” he murmurs as Stiles' hand flinches away on instinct. He dabs at Stiles' knuckles delicately.

It only takes him a few more moments before he asks the burning question, “Why didn't you tell me you could sign?” Stiles' fingers clench in Derek's palm, ready to pull away, but Derek's hold tightens. It's not painful, nor is it impossible to get out of if Stiles really wanted to, but it's enough to stop Stiles from moving away. “Stiles,” Derek says, “You can't keep running away from this.” The 'you've already run far enough' heavily implied.

And it's bullshit, because Stiles is pretty sure Derek did that for years after all the shit he went through. Which isn't fair in any shape or form considering how much more Derek must have suffered, but that’s not the point. He can avoid this if he wants, can avoid it so hard and for so long it's almost insulting Derek thinks otherwise. But when he tries to pull away a second time, Derek's hand tightens again and yeah, that's definitely keeping him in place.

It's what causes Stiles to turn to him with annoyance in his eyes, and is immediately glad he did when he see's Derek lift his hand to his chest, and sign out ' _please_.'

His body freezes, and he's sure that his eyes widen enough to give off 'I was in no way expecting this' vibes. Then again, 'please' is a pretty simple sign, his aunt Judy taught it to her two year old so that she'd know what she was trying to say when she pointed at the cookie jar and rubbed her hand in a circular motion on her chest.

So Stiles gives Derek a skeptical look, which causes Derek to sign ' _I also know a little of R-u-s-s-i-a-n and S-p-a-n-i-s-h,'_ before he's lifting the hydrogen peroxide towel and dabbing it back against Stiles' knuckles. Stiles see's the small smirk playing at Derek's lips, no doubt due to the slightly impressed look Stiles has on his face.

His mouth shuts with an audible click. The cabin is quiet, and Derek goes on to wrap Stiles' hand in white bandages when Stiles finally lifts his uninjured hand. ' _Have a lot of free time on your hands, then?_ '

Derek's eyes watch his hand movement from under his lashes, smiling softly before glancing back down at the first aid kit and pulling out medical tape. “Something like that,” he says instead of signing, his hands a bit occupied at the moment.

He doesn't say anything else after that, and it's not like he'll _literally_ be filling the silence, but now that Stiles knows his way of communication no longer has to exclusively revolve around eyebrow raises and wild gestures, he can't help but bring his hand up again. ' _I'm sorry I didn't tell you._ '

And it's true, Stiles trusts Derek, it's why he's up at this cabin with him in the first place. It's just, he saw no point in telling Derek about it. It's not like he thought, at the time, they'd be able to converse any better with Derek knowing he could sign.

Derek shakes his head, “I never asked,” and then he's done, Stiles is taking his hand back, and that seems to be all they have to say on the subject.

 

-○-

 

Stiles takes a shower, bandaged hand safely out of reach of the spray.

He has the need to scrub off the anger he'd gotten out of his system back in that alleyway, feels like its remnants still lingers on his skin and he wants it off, down the drain and gone for good.

While at the store Derek had thought to pick up a new, better body wash and Stiles is glad for it. The other one felt itchy and rough against his skin, probably because of the sea salt. This one though, is smooth as he scrubs a hand down his chest. It smells fresh, the coolness it spreads across his skin similar to when he chews mint gum.

He remains under the spray for a while longer than totally necessary, soaking up the lukewarm water that runs off his skin like a lazy stream. He didn't bring clothes into the bathroom, mostly because he more cared about washing the remaining dirt from his skin than anything else.

Wrapping a towel around his hips, he opens the door and a rolling cloud of steam emerges from the bathroom when he does. Something smells, admittedly, really good, and he follows the delicious smell into the kitchen where he finds Derek at the stove. He's looming over a pan filled with exotic, colorful vegetables that hiss against the pan.

“You okay with Stir-Fry?” He asks, no doubt hearing when Stiles stopped in the doorway. He looks over his shoulder at Stiles, and when Stiles nods a drip of water falls from his face and down his chest. Derek tracks it's movements and nods faintly, eyes lingering and making Stiles twitch before finally turning back towards the stove.

Stiles shakes it off and turns to climb the stairs.

He dresses with leisurely movements, the loft dimly lit now that the sun has begun to set. He ends up pulling on some sweats and a baggy t-shirt because he's in the mood for comfort. Taking a seat on the bed, he scrubs the towel over his still damp hair and takes his phone out from the pile of his clothes from earlier.

 **kinda got into it with a dude in an alley today,** he types out and sends to Scott.

The reply is instantaneous, **what?????!!!!! what happened??? are you okay???**

Stiles smiles sadly, of course Scott would ask if he's okay instead of just assuming it had been Stiles who instigated the fight. Which, technically, isn't true – Stiles hadn't heard him say much, but the guy was a real asshole. Not that that excuses what he did, Stiles thinks. **im fine. p sure the use of that many punctuation marks is bad for u tho.** His fingers hesitate after he sends that, then types out another message and sends it off. **I was the one that started it.** **the guy didnt even get in one punch.**

 **shit,** is Scott's reply.

 **yeah,** is Stiles'.

**what triggered it?**

Stiles hesitates for a moment. If he wanted to, he could blame it on the reminder he got on his phone the night before, blame it on the fact that Stiles is 99% sure the dude had been following them, that the guy was a _total_ douchenozzle.

 **nightmare** , is what he ends up sending.

**:( wanna talk about it?**

Stiles doesn't, in fact, want to talk about it, but he still sends off a quick, **was about when I woke up in the train station.**

It takes a while longer for Scott to reply. He should just be getting off work, the traffic might be holding him up. **ur still thinking about that?**

**hard to forget waking up in a train station alone because i went insane and sleep walked there.**

**we should have gotten there earlier,** Scott sends, like he still regrets not being able to find Stiles for a few days, **would have if we figured out u covered ur scent w/ rats blood to throw us off sooner.**

Stiles already knows all this, knows that they'd found the dead rats deep in the forest after they'd been trying to find Stiles for days. He knows this because Scott had explained it after they crashed in through the bathroom doors, after he had asked if he was okay again and again as Derek helped Scott stand him up.

 **i don't blame you,** and he never has, it was all Stiles' fault after all.

**u shouldn't blame urself either.**

**yeah,** Stiles types, reaching his limit on this conversation, **derek made dinner. ttyl?**

**ofc. love you man.**

Stiles sends a quick, **love you too,** before tossing his phone back on the bed and following the spicy scent of Stir-Fry down the stairs.

 

 

\----

-TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A drunk man uses some pretty offensive/homophobic language and slurs towards Stiles. Stiles snaps and ends up beating him up. There is graphic depiction of violence in this scene and mentions of blood.
> 
> There is mentions of animal death - rats - and Stiles using said rats blood in order to cover his scent. 
> 
> If you are easily offended or if any of these things will trigger you I'd suggest either not reading this, or being super cautious when you do.


End file.
